


Armchairs

by elldotsee



Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, POV Sherlock, Pre-Reichenbach, Reflection, Sudden angst like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25118893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elldotsee/pseuds/elldotsee
Summary: Sherlock reflects on the cornerstones of the 221b sitting room: their mismatched set of armchairs.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Anniversary Ficlets 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807645
Comments: 22
Kudos: 44
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	Armchairs

It was the first thing Sherlock purchased for his new place at 221B Baker Street, hours after meeting John Watson in the lab and persuading him to go and look at the flat together. He hadn’t told John that he’d already made a tentative deal with the landlady, or that he was planning to move in either way (and could more than afford it himself). Something had come over him as he’d deduced that fascinating mix of comfortable-and-deadly that limped in behind Mike and he’d found himself practically begging for him to come and be his flatmate. 

The flat had come mostly furnished, thanks to Mrs Hudson and her penchant for collecting things (edging on hoarding). The furniture was an eclectic mix of vintage and modern, comfort and design, some expensive pieces mixed in with some that had obviously been purchased for a deal at an estate sale. The singular armchair in the sitting room had once clearly taken up residence in Martha Hudson’s own flat, judging by the chintzy floral pattern. Positioned directly in front of the fireplace, it was the ideal place to sit, however, it was so lumpy and squishy and horrifically uncomfortable that Sherlock could not bear to do so for long. 

It was sheer boredom and a desire to sit on something that did not resemble old porridge that found him in an art deco shop that afternoon, a sunny but cold day in January, after he’d hashed out the rental agreement with good old Hudders. 

_ Happy birthday to me,  _ he thought, as he signed the delivery slip the next morning. The sleek lines of the  Le Corbusier appealed to his aesthetic and he found the rigid structure much more comfortable (and capable of withstanding all of his various flouncy seating arrangements) than the mushy old padding of the other chair. 

Sherlock perched on the back of it now, a rare glass of amber-coloured liquid in his grasp, each swallow burning his throat in a way he’d never found pleasant nor enjoyable. Terrible stuff. He did, however, understand why people drank it, if not for taste. The whisky made his brain slower, the constant firing of synapses that seemed almost distractedly intense most days quieted to a dull roar, his senses blurred so that he no longer  _ felt-heard-tasted-saw _ every minute detail, every tiny whisper of fabric, every infinitesimal atmospheric change. 

He pulled in a breath, felt his shoulders soften just the slightest.  _ Liquid courage.  _ Sherlock scowled into his drink, watching the deepening twilight make rainbows out of the cut glass pattern.  _ Aptly named, though I feel far from courageous.  _

Opposite where he was carefully perched on his beloved Le Corbusier chair, with all its sleek comfort and perfectly sturdy lines, sat another chair. John’s chair. From the very first days in Baker Street, John had seemingly gravitated toward the armchair, sinking into its softness in a way that made it seem enviably comfortable. 

Sherlock closed his eyes against the sudden onslaught of memories: quiet nights in, crackling fires and crap telly, too much takeaway,, telling dumb jokes just to make each other laugh, bickering over the menial tasks of a life shared. Clients telling their terrible sob stories while Sherlock did his best not to roll his eyes, contenting himself by watching John discreetly as he listened with practised empathy. Nights spent in silence with steaming cups of tea, physically and emotionally shaken after one too many close calls. 

And then there were other memories, other people that have sat opposite Sherlock in those chairs, their occupancy feeling strange and bizarre, like having one’s shoes on the wrong feet. 

Mycroft, in all his pompous snobbery and grating sensibility, delegating and taunting and being so irritating  _ smug.  _

Irene, with her glossy femininity, questionable morals, and not-John-ness, twirling her hair and pouting her lips, distracting but not in the way that she’d hoped. 

_ Moriarty _ . 

He’d purposely sat in Sherlock’s chair, trying with every move to gain the upper hand, to make Sherlock slip and lose his footing, his grip on reality. 

_ If I wasn’t everything that you think I am…  _

Those words he’d spoken to Molly, but they should have been meant for John. 

_ I know you for real. A hundred percent.  _

John had said that to him last night, moments before Lestrade and his cronies had come to arrest Sherlock, to set all of the horrible cogs of this plan into motion. Sherlock wasn’t sure where John was right now, but Sherlock knew deep down that this was very possibly the last time he’d see this room, this flat, these chairs. He needed to go, soon. Moriarty would be waiting. 

Sherlock had done his best to account for every inevitably, to anticipate every plan Moriarty could concoct. He’d do his best to keep John safe, or he knew he’d die trying. Either way, it seemed probable — inevitable, really — that he’d have to leave for a while, track down Moriarty once he consequently made a run for it, and dismantle the vast network that he knew had been constructed all over the globe.

With a grimace, Sherlock swallowed the last of the fiery liquid, patting the arms of his chair affectionately as he stood. On a whim, he bent forward and squeezed the arms of John’s chair, wishing with all his might that he could be having this conversation with the real John instead of his furniture stand-in. In the comfort of their own sitting room, the harsh reality of his future seemed fuzzy, unrealistic, foreign. Nevertheless, he bent down and whispered into the awful upholstery:

“In case I don’t get to say it properly tomorrow… goodbye, John. Thanks for the memories.” 

With that, he pulled his Belstaff from the hook and texted John, requesting that he meet him at Barts. 


End file.
